the Ways of the Cryptic
by HaneGaNai
Summary: He refuses to be blamed for being human, for choosing to remain that way. He is more than capable just the way he is. He doesn't need super senses or super strength to be able to defend himself. More often than not it was his humanity that saved them all. So he won't be blamed. He is not weak. But that doesn't mean he can't get stronger.


The worst part is he understands why they do it and he can't even blame them for it. But understanding doesn't mean accepting and he lets himself be a little vindictive about it all.

He refuses to be blamed for being human, for choosing to remain that way. He is more than capable just the way he is. He doesn't need super senses or super strength to be able to defend himself. More often than not it was his humanity that saved them all.

So he won't be blamed. He is not weak.

But that doesn't mean he can't get stronger.

It isn't even a serious injury that sets Scott off. Merely a black eye, a sprained ankle and a few bruised ribs. Compared to all the other clashes with things that go bump into the night he came out of this one relatively unscathed. Which is exactly what he tells Scott only to have it backfiring.

He wasn't really supposed to be there and, in his defense, he really did want to stay out of trouble this time around. He planned to spend the evening with his dad marathoning cop shows and gorging themselves on food. Because even with his father in the know he wasn't supposed to be putting himself in unnecessary danger. So when Scott asked him to stay in that day while the pack scoured the town in search for vampires Stiles didn't even argue. Especially since that way he could keep an eye on his dad.

Life, as always in his case, had other plans and Stiles ended up running for his life through the woods anyways, ambushed on his way to the store when he realized they run out of chips.

"I don't want you in the pack anymore." Scott said.

"You're a liability the way you are right now." Scott said.

"You're reckless, constantly injured and getting into trouble." Scott said.

"You're a risk we cannot afford." Scott said.

The first time he sees any of them after he gets back from New York is when they come to ask Deaton for help.

He's been chatting with the vet, the man slightly more open with him now they share some experiences and powers. Deaton is still talking in riddles seventy-five percent of the time, but Stiles finds himself catching on and even adapting the same manner of speech at times, being maddeningly vague and not sharing information. It probably comes with the job.

He's about to ask the vet about the grimoire Deaton was supposed to get for him when Scott bursts through the office's door with Isaac in tow.

Scott stops dead in his tracks, mouth open and the question he probably has for the vet dead in his throat. Stiles watches as his brain catches on with the sight before him, Isaac looking from one to another as if watching a tennis match.

Finally Scott seemed to regain some semblance of coherency. "Stiles?"

Stiles just gives them a small wave, choosing to act blasé. He doesn't really have anything to say to them, especially now that he's more prone to keep his mouth shut. It helps him gauge people better, be more aware of his surroundings. He found his balance.

"When did you get back?" The Alpha asks and he really does look the title. He no longer looks like a lost puppy. Scott seems to have matured in Stiles' absence, his eyes experienced, but still holding that warmth Stiles knows from all the years spent together. His stance is solid even while he's still taken aback by Stiles' presence.

The way Isaac keeps to his side, at ease like Stiles has never seen before, speaks volumes of the trust he has in Scott. Of the kind of leader Scott must have grown to be.

"Few days ago." Stiles answers truthfully, but short. They don't need to know more, don't even need to know this much and offering anything else won't do anyone good.

Silence falls between them, Deaton looking amused, the bastard.

It's the vet that breaks the quiet too, bringing their attention upon himself.

"Can I do something for you, boys?" Deaton asks the werewolves.

"Um…" Scott starts, but looks to Stiles unsure, obviously not willing to share anything with him there.

And Stiles knows how to prioritize and when to take a hint. He gets up from his chair and turns towards Deaton. "I'll be on my way then. I'll get back to you about that book."

"Of course." Is all the vet offers and Stiles' dismissed; he heads for the door ignoring the rest of the room's occupants.

"Stiles, wait!" Scott calls after him, but he doesn't react.

It's Isaac that holds Scott back, stops him with a quiet murmur of his name. It's for the best.

Stiles and Derek were growing into something before Scott sent Stiles away, leaving Deaton as his emissary even though it was supposed to be Stiles' role. Before the fall out after the Alpha Pack and the Darach was dealt with, before Derek left with Cora and no word goodbye.

They met again by chance in a café in New York and - cliché as it is - just fell into it, but differently. Without the heaviness of the world on their shoulders, without anything weighting them down. Easy, effortlessly. Simple. It was a long time coming; but now in a different setting, without horrors chasing them around they felt safe to try and explore it, to try it out

Stiles was older and Derek, if not free of guilt well – the trip with Cora helped him put some distance to it all, put it behind and move on. There still was some baggage, but it didn't drag him down as much and he wanted to try his hand at happiness.

So they met up a few times, went out to get dinner, watched movies together. They went to clubs and danced and it was electrifying.

Stiles practiced and read, Derek sometimes served as a test subject for minor spells, or as an anchor for the more demanding ones. They picked herbs together and even dealt with a few stray monsters.

The progression was natural. It was easy falling into a rhythm together, waking up entwined in tangled sheets, settling on a couch to make out with a movie playing in the background; to move around the kitchen as they prepared dinner.

They worked. They fit.

So when Stiles decided it was time to go back there was no doubt Derek would go with him.

Training with Vargas in New York gave him insight on the proper etiquette of the how and what in the world of the supernatural. He himself doesn't have to go through the official channels since he doesn't plan on meddling in pack business and because he's a packless emissary, but he still insists Derek does ask for permission to stay in McCall territory.

He doesn't know if Deaton taught Scott about ceremonies and formulas, about protocols and what's not appropriate to say. He is adamant on going along with formalities though, if only to ensure their autonomy.

Derek knows all of this, taught by his parents and elders. Something he never had the chance to share with his ragtag pack. He still frowns at Stiles though and Stiles knows he's afraid he'll be unwelcome. That Scott might decide it's better is Derek stays away from Beacon Hills. That Derek will have to leave and Stiles will go with him, abandoning what he only just regained.

And Stiles does prefer it they could stay, but he won't weep. He came because his dad is here, yes, because this was his home for the last eighteen years. But he could, _they_ could make a home for themselves somewhere else and wait for his dad to retire in a few years.

"They'll smell you on me." Is how Derek chooses to protest, which, he should know Stiles better by now.

Stiles laughs into the space left between them, fingers moving over Derek's naked shoulder tracing runes meant to protect and heal.

"Mm, have our scents mixed that well already?" He muses pleased. "How do we smell like together?"

"Stiles." Derek admonishes, but it's fond, a way to steer Stiles back to the matter at hand.

"What? I want to know." When Derek just stares at him from his side of the pillow he sighs and pushes against Derek until he can pillow his head on the wolf's chest. "I don't really have a reason to mask my scent from them. We're back. I've already stumbled on Scott and Isaac at Deaton's and you're bound to meet them around town when you go get milk or something either way. He can't avoid them if we're to stay."

"You know that's not exactly what I mean." And Stiles does know, he just simply doesn't see a problem in the pack learning that he and Derek are together.

"It's none of their business." He answers with heat. Stops to consider. "Unless you'd rather we keep that from them."

Derek pulls him closer, traps him within the limit of his limbs. "Don't be stupid."

"Then I see no problem in them smelling eau de Stilinski on you. Just promise me little to no fighting and zero bloodshed."

"Can't promise."

It's Scott.

"Just try."

The nightmares never truly stop, though they are less frequent with Derek holding him close at night, hot breath against the skin of Stiles' nape.

He dreams of darkness, of never ending voids of space bereft of sound and smell. He dreams of an overpowering darkness that closes in on him with every breath, every unsteady step he takes inside of the dream.

He dreams of acrid smells, burning flesh, fractured bones, rotting corpses both known and unfamiliar. He sees deaths he could have prevented, departures he was the reason for.

He sees his father crouching over Scott, over Melissa, over Stiles, his mom. He sees himself a second later, same broken faces flashing before him. But then there's Derek's too his features flickering between that of a wolf and man, then between Stiles' dad and back to Derek and Stiles can't decide which is worse. Feels bad for even considering weighting their deaths.

He sees worlds collapsing in on themselves, sees battles that should have never begun. He witnesses loss and destruction, the visions so clear that he can't shake them off for hours after Derek forces him awake.

Derek worries, blames himself for not being enough to help Stiles through the night no matter how many times Stiles tells him that it's the opposite. Tells him about days at a time of forcing himself to stay awake, because the Nemeton seemed to take a particular interest in him after they all died. Of the times he was barely lucid enough to stand his ground in a fight.

There's none of that now, he can deal with a few residue nightmares as long as Derek is there to soothe him afterwards.


End file.
